twirling leaves and twinkling stars
by atelophobic
Summary: 07; Materialistic much? Loke/Lucy.
1. black and white, jeralerza

_disclaimer_;; i don't own fairy tail  
_notes1_;; i have so many drabbles. so... i might as well put them all in one place, right?

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**01**; _black and white.  
_**j**_eral_/**e**_rza.  
__there's no turning back, now._

* * *

She is red. She's as alive as the blood pumping through her veins, as steady as her adrenaline-charged heartbeats.

She is not dead. She is Erza Scarlet, and she will never give up. Because she know what she is fighting for, and she knows how cruel humanity can be.

She refuses to let anyone else go through her tragedy.

But one look into his eyes makes her hesitate just a little. Makes her stop for her second.

Because she is no longer the color of red. The color of love. Of passion. Of violence. Everything is black and white and gray and maybe there's no one else in this world because all they see is each other and their inevitable doom.

She is the color of white, and he is the color of black.

Seeing him makes something lurch in her stomach—something vaguely like guilt and regret.

But she does not stop.

She shouts a battle cry and lunges.


	2. stay with me, lokilucy

_disclaimer;; _i don't own fairy tail._  
notes1;_ ...i'm alive?  
_notes2_; i accept prompts! just give me a pairing along with it. :D

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**02**; stay with me**  
l**_oki/_**l**_ucy__  
I wish this wasn't so complicated._

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His mouth brushes her shoulder, and she looks away, frowning.

"This is not the time to be doing that!" she hisses, glancing around the rusty ship.

He smirks and laughs a little, holding her tighter. Closer. "Whatever." She glares at him, her lip pouting ever so slightly, her blond hair shining like silver. "You're my bodyguard, you know. Show a little respect to the princess."

He grins, lightly poking her nose. "Of course I will show my respect," he says. "_My lady_," he quickly adds mockingly.

"Stop playing," she mutters. He is taken aback by her response and promptly lets go of her. "Surely you don't think I'm—"

_Look. Look. It's there. Stop. It's there. _The Whisper clouds up, strong yet vague, smoky yet clear.

In the far distance, they start to see a dirty land quickly approaching. Rotting corpses and limbs litter the blood-soaked field, and she quickly averts her eyes. The air grows somber, and the Technicians stop and stare at the broken landscape.

The ship's dirty hull squelches on the shore, and everyone waits in anticipation. The princess, all white and innocent and pure, steps out first, an odd sight amidst the gore, and cautiously takes a first step. People peer at her from the trees and bushes and grimace. The Whisper appears yet again, with one powerful command. _Kill her._

She doesn't move. Foul smelling mud is thrown at her, staining her white gown, staining her blond hair, staining her porcelain skin.

_This is the tragedy you must bear,_ the Whisper says, only to her. _This is the fate given to you by you family._

The new King steps out regally in front of her miserable self and sneers. "So this is the beautiful princess, eh? Perhaps I'll have a little... _fun_ before I execute you."

Her eyes widen, but not out of disgust.

An arrow sticks out of her back. She crumples, dead before she reached the ground.

"It was you!" The King roars, pointing to a spiky-haired teen in the back.

It was her bodyguard.

"I was hired to give her a quick death," he chokes out, and the crowd pounces.


	3. ties that break, friedmirajane

_disclaimer; _disclaimed._  
notes1_; so, fried or freed? juvia or lluvia? loki or loke? who knows. i just go with whatever looks cooler. (i'm sort of upset that it's loke instead of loki.)

_for_ **Ice of the Kitsune's Fire**  
(what can i say? i work fast. well, when i want to.  
i got your reviews, by the way. they were lovely, and they made me smile.)

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**03**; ties that break**  
****f**_ried_/**m**_irajane  
And really, waiting is overrated._

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She thinks that it is highly amusing that a woman like her—a woman surrounded by revulsion and destruction—would wait for the return of someone like Fried.

It is ridiculous, she tells herself. It is ridiculous and pointless and nothing but a child's wistful dreams. How can someone be waiting when, every day, someone is killed? Every gruesome second echoes the sound of someone's last screams—perhaps it was for the greater good, or for far more sinister purposes, but every day, someone's life is snuffed out by another hand.

Slaughter.

It is the life she lived in, breathed in. She sees it in people's grim expressions, she sees it in the blood splatters on the floor she has to clean every night.

She has no right to pause her life for something so trivial when all of her friends face their possible demise every single day.

She thinks that waiting really is such a tedious task. She waits and she lingers, tracing old portraits and singing old rhymes. Sometimes she would dig up an old memory from her mind, and she would recount it to herself in the silence of the empty bar.

Sometimes, she forgets what his voice sounds like, or what his skin feels like. Sometimes, she forgets what he even looks like and is left with only a stunning shade of emerald.

And just when she tells herself she has had enough, he waltzes back into her dreary life, painting it in shades of green. When he steps into the guild on those rare occasions, he pauses and gives the room a once-over and reviews the old faces, the new faces, the stronger faces.

She swears that when he glances at her, he gives her a look so cold that hell could freeze over. She wonders if he is worth her time or even, heavens forbid, her _love_, but when the guild is almost empty, he steps in with a look of quiet determination with his gaze focusing on her.

She's always a bit too giddy and bit too unreserved in his presence, and, more often than not, she finds herself pouring out her angst under the influence of alcohol. He only gives her a hushed smile reserved only for her, and suddenly, the world doesn't seem so hopeless anymore.

Every day, she reminds herself, someone dies, sure, but a new life is born. New hopes and dreams and wishes are born on a daily basis, and life is beautiful.

The day he leaves is inevitable, and usually, he doesn't even say goodbye. Mirajane is quick to adapt to these kinds of things and greets people as merrily as she always does.

But she's waiting, again, waiting like she always does. But somehow—

She doesn't really mind.


	4. something like heartbreak, gajeellevy

_disclaimer_: i own nothing.  
_notes_: i still accept prompts and i really want prompts and give me prompts please i mean what  
_  
for _**xxIcyAngelxx**. here's your gajeel/levy.  
(of course it's angst. CAN'T STOP ME. /shot)

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04; _something like heartache.  
levy/gajeel.  
it's like i never existed in the first place._

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She wonders if it would hurt to die.

She thinks about the sharp edge of a knife, about the rusty taste of a pill. She thinks of water washing over her. She thinks of air leaving her lungs.

Crimson hands dot her daydreams. The sight of thick, vermilion blood is burns on the back of her eyelids.

She hides books that contain theories about the afterlife and ghosts and the paranormal under her rune textbooks.

Her fascination of death is nothing to be desired, but she speculates, almost every minute, just how it would feel like to let go of life. To breathe a last breath.

She wonders if anyone would miss her.

—

.

.

"Yes, but, have you ever even stopped to think what happens after death?" She gazes up at him, eyes full of melancholy and hope and something else he couldn't name.

The morbid words she was speaking didn't match her cheerful expression, and he briefly wonders what other things she's hiding.

He scowls, realizing she's still waiting for him to speak, and he replies. "Nah. I used to, back in my other guild, but I..." he pauses.

She matches his sour expression, her hands twirling in her blue hair out of habit. She bit her lips. "Yeah?" she asked, signaling him to continue.

His face scrunches up in concentration. "I think I'm... happy. Here. With you," he added, watching her blush prettily.

"I—Okay. Cool. I'm... happy with you too." Without warning, she hops up to her feet and off the bench she was sitting on. She stumbles out the guild door, trudging heavily to her apartment.

As he watches her walk away, he wonders why she thinks of dying so much.

—

.

.

She marvels at the flawlessness of her wrist. She has never noticed until that moment.

For a second, she admires the creamy, taut skin stretched over graceful bones. She can detect little blue veins and capillaries underneath, pulsing with life.

She frowns and lets her mind wander to the unknown, to the loss of life, to ghosts and wandering and letting go.

What would it be like, to stop living?

Her grip loosens on the razor and it falls in a flash of silver. The resounding clang echoes through the bathroom and she stands up.

She smiles faintly and recalls a man with spiky black hair that defies gravity and metal piercings.

She's not going to die, today. Someone would miss her.


	5. the name of the game, jeralerza

_disclaimer:_ i don't even own a single fairy tail item. /creys  
_notes1_: this is somewhat of a continuation from the first one.

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**05**; the name of the game  
erzajeral_  
this was never supposed to happen_  
for the annonymous **LadyK**

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The aftermath of war is supposed to be glorious. The brave hero coming home to loved ones and friends is the perfect scene painted in everyone's minds. The bloody battles are over and done with; they are nothing more than a distant memory; a thing of history.

Their situation is laughably far from picturesque.

Instead of a glorious hero, there is only a broken girl with wisps of crimson cascading down her shoulders like a broken halo. Instead of an evil villain, there is a once-friend lying in her lap, only a boy full of what-could-have-beens and almost-truths.

There is nothing glorious about it.

It is a cruel twist of fate that pitted them together on the battlefield. It is a destiny that she did not want find. But she is still Erza, the same Erza who upholds rules and is almost too good at detaching her emotions from her duty.

She holds his body closer with an affection she's never shown him when he was alive.

Her eyes dart across the ragged landscape before and tries to ignore the splatters of red dotting it. She closes her eyes in disgust andremembers.

_Scarlet_.

Wasn't that the name he gave her once upon a time?

She buries her face in his chest the way she's always wanted to but never has. He's not breathing.

She shouldn't have been surprised.

But she sets her jaw and tries not to cry anyway.


	6. crime infested, lokearies

**disclaimer**: this speaks for itself.  
**notes1**: guys, school is just around the corner for me. and by 'just around the corner,' i totally mean 'in a few hours.' so, i might not update all that often, but feel free to leave me prompts! i promise i'll write it eventually.

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**06**; crime infested  
lokiaries  
_he was a drug that she couldn't give up.  
_for **ShyButterflyKiss  
**(worry not, i'm totally doing the juvia/gray one too.)

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Aries is many things, but she is not stupid.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees many things she is not supposed to see—him affectionately brushing the rouge cheek of some girl, him whispering words of whimsy into another's ear, his hand clutching yet another girl's slim waist.

They are both aware of what he is doing. They are both aware that their relationship is as fragile as a mirror.

They both know that they broke that mirror a long time ago, long enough for Aries to stop trying to pick up the pieces, long enough for Loke to stop _caring_. Because after all they've been through, even though he loves her, she isn't _enough._

She simply never was enough for him.

She knows this well, but she can't give him up just yet, because he is everything she dreamed of, everything she wanted. And sometimes, when she's alone, she almost convinces herself that she's lucky that _he_ chose _her_, that he _stayed_ with her, even when he had every other girl in the universe in the palm of his hand. There are moments when the world only consists of him and her and the wispy breath of coffee floating in the air, and she smiles a smile that can rival the sun.

She looks at his eyes, and they almost look like twinkling stars—beautiful and distant. She desperately wants to pull him back to her, to Earth, but in the end she can only hold him from an arm's length; never letting go, but never holding all that closely either.

She watches him with an attention he's never given her and daydreams about stepping on mirror fragments.


	7. modernization, lokelucy

**disclaimer**: i own nothing.  
**notes1**: hey guys, I can write things other than angst! i'm getting back on my writing groove, and i'm working on all of your (extremely late) prompts. so far i have juvia/gray for _ShyButterflyKiss_, and silk or fever for _StarlitxIcexGoddess9074_.

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**07**; modernization  
lokelucy  
_materialistic much?_

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Her nails, painted with a smoking shade Erotic Electric Emerald, clacked against the polished surface of Loke's Audi. Naturally, said man winced at the plastic sound that it made, watching miserably as Lucy continued to leave nonexistent neon green residue on his prized possession.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, quite irritably, and Loki frowned in dismay. Obviously, she was in a terrible mood, and she really should not be anywhere near his car.

"I would like to inquire, m'lady, about why you have such a sour face," he countered smoothly, gently plucking her hands from their position on the hood.

"Liar," she scoffed. "You only care about your car."

Gravely, Loke twisted his features into a blank expression. "You got me, Lucy. My car is the only thing I live for in this cruel, cruel world."

A second passed, and the next thing he is aware of is that Lucy's eyes crinkle adorably when she laughs, and that, screw his Audi, he can live for Lucy's smile instead.


End file.
